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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785038">Heaven is a place on earth with you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiimo/pseuds/Kiimo'>Kiimo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dean POV, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, I swear this is a fix it!! it has a happy ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, There's just a lot of suffering before it, Trans Male Character, ooh these are some fun tags uh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:07:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785038</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiimo/pseuds/Kiimo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is what his body was made for. Violence and violence again, till he dies a brutal end. Not whatever he could have had. Not whatever he was running from. Not rough hands made soft just to hold his. Not tight smiles pressing at his collarbone. None of it, no. He doesn’t deserve tenderness, never did. This is what destiny always had in store for Dean Winchester: getting beaten to death by an angry god, who doesn’t even give a shit about it all anyway."</p><p>A fix-it fic loosely following the events of the last two episodes. In which Dean yearns a lot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heaven is a place on earth with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Alright so first of all I want to make it very clear I never want to see another frame of this awful show. I stopped watching around season 11 but, as so many others, got brutally pulled back by the destiel confession scene, and ended up watching the last 2 episodes. I thought they were hilariously bad, but then I played myself and ended up feeling very real emotions about these very fake men. So here we are.</p><p>I started this before the spanish dub came out, so it picks of from the end of 15x18 where Dean doesn't say he loves Cas too.</p><p>Also me and my friends made a playlist I listenned to on loop while writing this if you want the Mood :https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQHcxO1ICHLxQ_Wg0pychgwix4U3vYEGs</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean’s phone rings in his palm, and he lets it. His thumb rests useless right next to the answer button. It’s Sam, and he knows eventually he’ll have to pick up, have to pick himself up as well, and go on and try and save the world or whatever. But everything feels very far away right now. Like he’s experiencing the universe through a thick fog. His body is heavy like a stone, and he can barely feel the wall against his back. </p><p>Cas is gone. Again. Cas sacrificed himself for him. Fucking again. The phone stops ringing. His hand goes limp and he drops it to the floor. It bounces once, and the screen cracks a little in the right corner. Dean doesn’t see any of this, he’s staring into space, his breath stuck in his chest. When he finally lets it out, it sounds like a broken little thing, all whimpery and shallow and far too high. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, halfway between crying and dying, but eventually the word comes back. It’s painful and he’s sore all over, but it does somehow feel real, at least. He closes his eyes for a long time, bites his lip until he’s done choking on his own breath. He buries it all deep, and doesn’t let himself think about Cas’ hand on his shoulder. He has things to do. People to save, things to hunt...whatever.</p><p>He picks up his phone, calls Sam back. Shit’s fucked. Shit’s fucked up beyond belief and he has to explain how Cas is gone again and Sam’s voice over the phone mirrors his heartache, and he wants nothing more than to sit back down and just give up. But that’s not what a Winchester does, a manly voice that’s not quite his own harangs in his mind. Winchesters don’t give up, you’ll sleep when you’re dead kiddo. And let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later, bitterly adds Dean.</p><p> </p><p>The world is empty. It’s just the three of them and all the road the impala could ever swallow and absolutely no one else. And still no Cas. It’s like a bad dream, the last one in a life that seems comprised of nightmares. Chuck laughs at them, always just out of reach, always too powerful to be pulled down.</p><p>They go back to the bunker, and at least the pantry is still stocked full of old expensive whiskey. A toast to small miracles. Dean knows these decade old bottles taste great but he chugs them just to feel the heat on his tongue and the buzz in his head, and the burn is the same as 5 dollar booze. He tries to be functional during the day, to help on the Quest to Kill God. Because it’s them three against the world, and a part of him does want to bring back everyone, wants to be the big hero this world needs. But there’s only one person he really wants to bring back, and he’s not even sure what he’d say to him if he did. </p><p>So he gets shitfaced every evenning, because if he doesn’t he’ll just fucking cry about Cas again. And okay, maybe he lets out a few tears anyway, but the booze drowns it all down so good, the buzz takes over, and who cares if he’s coping exactly like his dad did? Not like there’s much of anyone left to judge him. </p><p>Sam does look at him with worry in his eyes, brows furrowed and a hand on his shoulder. But they don’t talk, not really. It doesn’t go beyond a “you okay?”, which he can answer with a weak “yeah” neither of them believe, and he’s off the hook, just has to clean the empty bottles off the counter. They’ve never been really good at it, the hearts to hearts. They’ve got the aesthetic of it all down, for sure. Leaning against the car, looking to the ground with their arms crossed or their hands in their pockets, and throwing their inner turmoil at each other, seeing what sticks. Real manly shit. And sure, sometimes, it worked, and they felt better after. But most of the time, they weren’t really communicating, it’s more like they were playing at it. And one of them runs off and does something stupid, and the other is left to pick up the pieces and it’s damn lucky if neither of them ends up in a grave. </p><p>These days Dean feels like he doesn’t know his little brother, can no longer reach out and grip into his guts to pull out a deep confession. It felt so easy when they were kids. Sure, in hindsight, they had an extremely fucked up childhood. And sure, maybe with no one but the three of them and Evil God on this bitch of an earth, Dean can admit, at least to himself, and in a whisper, that maybe his dad was a bit of a dipshit. But still, he thinks back to motel rooms with beds too big for them, and popcorn popped in front of scary movies on shitty tvs. He thinks of hitting each other on the back of the impala, of making up stories so Sam wouldn’t think too hard about where their dad was, so he himself wouldn’t dwell on it, and all he feels is peace. They just had less problems back then, and the problems they did have were too big for kids to apprehend anyway, too huge and abstract to deal with. 10 year old Dean didn’t have to worry about an angel with perfect eyes sacrificing himself for him, or like, the world ending more than once in his lifetime. Sigh. </p><p>It did feel like they connected again, after all these years, Sam and him. Through all the pain and hardships, and the long hours on the road filled by silence or classic rock. They talked again, really talked sometimes. Sam told him, if a bit reluctantly, about all of his gender stuff, lanky body buried in the seat of the impala, looking pointedly through the window, fingers with bitten nails tugging at his gnawed sweatshirt's strings. And Dean barely got the pronoms wrong, and not for very long, only stared a little bit in disbelief and wonder at the faded white scars on his sibling's chest, like St Thomas sticking his finger in Christ's wounds. </p><p>But now Sam feels far away again. It most likely has to do with the walls he built around his own heart, Dean knows, but realizing it doesn’t make it easier to tear down. So he doesn’t spill his heart at Sam’s feet, all bloody and raw. He just slowly spits it into bottles every night, and looks away when his brother tries to do damage control. It just doesn’t feel like it’s worth it anymore, being healthy or whatever. Who needs a functioning brain when humanity is gone and you could just as easily cope through constant inebriation?</p><p> </p><p>Then someone calls. On his phone. Someone calls him on his phone, when there’s only supposed to be three people and one terrifying entity on this whole planet. He reads “Cas” through the rush of adrenaline, and it’s like all the blood has been brought back into his veins and heart. Like he was dead yet again and one word brought him back, the touch of an angel.</p><p>He picks up. It’s his voice, it is Cas! Dean’s newly regenerated heart almost gives up again right there and now. Cas is right there, and he needs his help! As Dean rushes to his feet, a part of him thinks it’s too good to be true. But that’s the part he listened to for too long, the one that fucked it all up so many times, and he needs this so bad, can’t live without it, so he runs to the front door of the bunker. Only to get his heart crushed in tiny bits by satan himself. His life truly makes no fucking sense.</p><p> </p><p>The whole time Lucifer does his little song and dance, Dean feels stuck inside himself, unable to give a shit about it all. Cas’ fake words repeat themselves on loop. “I’m hurt.” “I need help.” Satan truly is the greatest con artist, because the intonations were all in the right place, and it all felt so heart achingly real. He hadn’t heard Cas’ voice in so long, and he hadn’t let himself think of it, and this little trap of sentences brought it all back. For a second, he fought he could have it all, grab Cas’ face in his hands and apologize for everything, for his entire being, fall to the floor on his knees and repent for it all. For an achingly sweet moment, hope entered every fiber of his being, and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with how much hope his heart can hold. How much love can fit in that battered old thing. </p><p>He doesn’t think that word out, love, not consciously. It’s far too big to handle, much scarier than yet another apocalypse. And it’s useless anyway right, if Cas’ words are just waved from Lucifer’s tongue? Eventually, Dean corners all those big emotions back into a little locked room in the alcoves of his heart, to be opened only at night, and with the sweet tang of alcohol to smooth its rough edges. He brings himself back to the situation at hand, to the thing that matters, or so he’s told. Even though this whole charade seems more and more like a cosmic joke as time passes. Who the fuck cares, really?</p><p>Anyway, Lucifer fucks them over. And what a shock that is! They really have to stop making deals with demons and the Litteral King of Hell. But you don’t teach new tricks to an old dog apparently, and the Winchesters just keep shaking hands with wolves, even when they don’t bother putting on sheep skins. But still, they’ve got a plan apparently! It’s convoluted, dangerous and there’s a very high chance it’ll blow up in their faces, but it’s a plan. Something to cling to and recreate an end of the world routine to. </p><p>They do prep work and run around trying to find all these things for a fake spell. It allows Dean to focus on the (important, remember it’s so very important and the fate of the world rests in the balance) work his hands are doing and nothing else. Clears his mind of all unimportant (unimportant because he can’t do anything about it, so just keep it all down and quiet) feelings and unanswered questions. It doesn’t feel good exactly, or peaceful, but it’s not the worst he ever felt either. He doesn’t feel much of anything, makes a conscious effort not to actually. </p><p>During the day at least. Night is a different story, because suddenly there's nothing for his hands to hold onto and they’re free to shake as hard as they can. Doors open wide and all these nasty emotions flood his head. He tries so hard not to think about it, what Cas said. He’s so good at it too, not thinking about this stuff, spent a lifetime practicing. But the words loop on repeat, as well as Lucifer’s lies, and his heart aches so tenderly for what could have been. He reaches for someone who isn’t there, and his sheets feel desperately cold. </p><p> </p><p>Then, he and Sam fight God. Well, fight isn’t exactly the correct word. The Winchester brothers get absolutely obliterated by God Almighty, writer of their story. And as Chuck beats them into a bloody pulp, Dean realises he doesn’t give a shit. He really can’t find it in him to care. He welcomes the pain like an old friend, smiles as blood fills his lungs. At least he’s feeling something again. And it’s something he can apprehend, that he can handle, the familiar ache of a broken nose, his vision going dark, his knees hitting the dirt over and over again.</p><p>This is what his body was made for. Violence and violence again, till he dies a brutal end. Not whatever he could have had. Not whatever he was running from. Not rough hands made soft just to hold his. Not tight smiles pressing at his collarbone. None of it, no. He doesn’t deserve tenderness, never did. This is what destiny always had in store for Dean Winchester: getting beaten to death by an angry god, who doesn’t even give a shit about it all anyway.</p><p>His bones crack, he hears Sam yell,in the distance even though he’s right next to him, and Dean realises Chuck can just keep doing this forever, if he so fancies. He can keep breaking them down into pieces and putting them back together just to bleed them like stuck pigs again for all of eternity. And even that perspective doesn’t bring back an inch of self preservation in Dean’s chest. He really just doesn’t give a shit, is fine with it all, surrenders himself to this unfair judgement from above.</p><p>He has a fleeting thought for his little brother, who, unlike him, doesn’t really deserve this. But this compassion is quickly swallowed by his newly found nihilism, and the cloud of pain that overwhelms him. He laughs as one of his ribs punctures his lung, and spits blood to the ground as he does.</p><p>It’s over as quickly as it started. His bones set themselves back into place and the blood gushing down his face disappears. It doesn’t even hurt, this brutal healing, just like miracles from Castiel used to feel (don’t think about him, for fuck sake). He’s not in pain anymore, and they won. They won! Plan worked, pack it up boys, the world is saved yet again! They don’t even have to kill God, they just let him writtle on the ground, powerless and desperate for meaning. Ah, sounds familiar. Maybe they should worry a bit more about leaving him here, but he's still not in the mood for giving a fuck about anything, so he doesn't mention it.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone is back. That's a relief for sure. Dean would have felt bad (worse) if humanity was gone forever because of him. Well, almost everyone. He asks about Cas, tries to keep his voice from breaking when he does. Jack looks beyond his shoulder, far into the horizon, eyes glazing over. He doesn't answer for a long time, and Dean desperately tries not to think of anything.</p><p>Jack shakes his head then. He has the decency to look saddened by the thought when he tells Dean he can't reach Castiel. But it's a shallow look, like a busy father pretending to care about his son's imaginary friend's struggles. Jack is already very far away, Dean realises. Sam must have caught the same look, because he asks, with wonder coating his tongue:</p><p>"You’re...You are Him now aren't you?"</p><p>This isn't Jack standing in front of them anymore, not really. It's God, a brand new shiny one just to make sure they don't strand too far away from the light. And God is growing more and more distant by the second, explaining he won't interfere in the world's business, that that's where Chuck went wrong.</p><p>Dean wants to rush over to this kid and wrangle him by the shoulders, yell that no, he can’t just leave them all alone again, can’t dismiss all the happiness he could bring as useless. Hasn't he seen Spiderman, doesn't he know a great power implies great responsibility? He wants to throw a tantrum, scream out that after everything they’ve done, don’t they deserve a little peace, doesn’t he deserve something more? Why won’t Jack try harder? But already he’s walking away from them, spreading his arms and looking around at humanity like the proud shepherd he is. He isn’t looking at them, and for a dangerous second, Dean wants to try his hand at killing God again. </p><p>But Jack isn't a kid anymore, he isn't even something they can really comprehend. He throws them one final empty look, sheds the last remnant of his humanity, and simply vanishes. “You’ll be able to find me in everything. The air, the flowers, the people." he said. But Dean already knows that that’s bullshit, even without praying. God left the call, thanks for saving the world and good luck with it all! </p><p>Sam looks around at their brand new world with a widening smile, and Dean wishes he could feel his obvious relief, but he’s too busy choking on bitterness and anger. Of course even at the end, it wouldn’t be fucking fair. There'll be peace when you are done, my ass. The world is saved, and all Dean feels is bone deep exhaustion. He slowly makes his way to the impala, feet dragging on the ground. Sam follows him, half running. Leaning on the hood, he smiles brightly, seeming a decade younger. The sight warms Dean’s heart, but Sam’s smile quickly fades, becoming guilty as he reads Dean’s grief on his face.</p><p>“Hey, we did it Dean. We fucking beat God!”</p><p>“Yeah. Go us.” Dean barelly represses his cynicism. He should be thankful, this is pretty much the best outcome they could have hoped for. But fuck, Cas is still  unreachable and he’s just so damn tired of it all. He forces a smile on and hurriedly gets in the car, snapping the door shut with a bit too much force. Sam is still outside. His voice sounds wistful, brings Dean out of his torpor to look at his brother.</p><p>“We’re not done though.” Sam looks down at him through the window. “Are we?”</p><p>“I mean, just because Jack can’t find him, doesn’t mean we’re giving up, right?” He gets in the car and sits behind the steering wheel, wrists propped on it. He stares off into the horizon. “We’re the Winchesters, saving people is our business. Right before hunting things, if I recall.” He turns the ignition on. “We’re gonna save him.” The engine purrs. Dean holds his breath. “We’re gonna save Cas.” And with that, they ride off towards the setting sun.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When they get to the bunker, Dean immediately wants to start research, can’t sit still. The exhaustion gave way to manic agitation, and he wants to turn over the entire library, feels like he could get right back behind the wheel and scour the entire earth for a way to reach Castiel. Sam is supportive, but after a moment of silently eating cold pasta and watching his brother pace around like a caged animal, he drops the towel and wishes Dean a good night. They can look for a way to get to Cas tomorrow, but he should really try and get some rest now, he says with a pointed look. </p><p>Dean doesn’t get some rest. In his defence, he doesn’t get drunk either. He keeps pacing for a while, picking up a book, reading a few pages, not ingesting any information, dropping the book back down. He runs his hands through his hair, frantic, mind going a million mile an hour. Hope is back in his heart, and with it, the other word, the one he doesn’t dare say or think out loud. Frustrated by his own inability to either find a way to help his friend, or even make sense of his torned up stupid emotions, he tries to follow Sam’s advice and heads to his room. He passes by Cas’ on his way, stops dead in his tracks. </p><p>Since Cas left (sacrificed himself. For him. Because he loved him), Dean got really good at tunnel vision. He managed to always find his bed without looking at or acknowledging Castiel’s bedroom door. True, the cloud of drunkenness often helped. But now, Dean and his shameful little heart filled with hope stands still in front of the door. His hand hovers over the handle...</p><p>And he can’t do it, rushes back to his own room, flops down on the bed and wills himself to sleep. With his eyes shut, his brows furrowed and his teeth clenched, Dean’s heart spills open underneath his skin, coating his ribs in a dark mallase. It does so without a sound, in the dark of his empty buried room, like a large coffin. Cas’ bedroom door is still shut, but the little one Dean was so sure he double-locked in his heart has creaked open, and it all gushes out, like blood out of a deep knife wound. Cas’ words on repeat, a confession, one he wordlessly gave away so many times before, one Dean kept rejecting. </p><p>Dean thinks of rough hands with well manicured nails grabbing at his clothes to snatch him away from danger. He thinks of furrowed brows and tight smiles and wise eyes with the prettiest blue irises. He thinks of the same man, always being there for him, always jumping in front of mortal danger and doing it with a smile on his face too, just so Dean wouldn’t focus on the tears. In the empty darkness of his room, Dean thinks of love, and for the first time in a long time, lets himself think it. </p><p> </p><p>When the sun rises, Dean somehow managed to sleep through the deluge of decade old repressed emotions, and his alarm clock feels only a little like a sledgehammer slammed  on his brain. Coffee helps, and he’s almost finished barricading the door to his heart in time for Sam’s coming up to pour himself a cup too. Sam knows what to do, always was the brain of the operation, and he assigns Dean a big pile of books to scour through. Dean has no idea what he would do without his little brother. He should tell him that some time, really thank him for it all.</p><p>They spend days like this, just searching for something, anything in their underground library to rescue their friend. It’s not like someone ever wrote an how-to guide to rescuing an angel from the Empty, but the Winchesters are good at impossible odds, so Dean burns his eyes on century old paper for hours.</p><p>The edge of duty gets dull after a while though, and the words blur on the pages. Dean's legs start to shake, his hands ache for the handle of a gun, a bottle of holy water, a saltshaker, anything. He wants to hit the road and get some information the good old fashioned way, through intimidation and gutting demons left and right, feel like a man. </p><p>But he knows the thought is just an useless urge. They don't have a lead yet, and what demon stupid enough to get easily caught by them would know anything about the Empty anyway? So he forces his head down and keeps reading.</p><p>It goes on like this for a while; fruitless days of reading and sleepless nights where Dean stares at the big pile of unaddressed feelings inside of him. His love, he slowly realises, is like an untamed beast. It's a wolf in a dark forest right outside his home, and he never looked at it, never fed it, never acknowledged its presence in a decade, and the beast grew ten times over. It grew at every look, every fading touch, every joke and every smile, and Dean never saw it. Until the wolf blew and blew, and tore his straw house down. And here he lies, in front of the crazed eyed beast, who's drooling all over the carpet. The wolf is in the house and Cas is gone. The wolf is in the house and Dean's heart silently breaks every night.</p><p>It keeps being too hard to enter Cas' room, so Dean just doesn't. Sam doesn't mention it, doesn't mention anything really. He doesn't sit him down to have a heart to heart about Dean's feelings for their best friend. Dean is thankful, loves that repression and avoidance is their family credo. It's easier that way.</p><p>Still, eventually it eats away at him, even in daylight (or as much daylight as they get down in the bunker), the locked door. It starts feeling disrespectful, like spitting on the grave they didn’t even get to dig. So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and pushes the door open. When he opens them back up, the room is tidy, if a bit dusty. The bed is made, Cas probably never slept in it of course. It’s all just...empty, and Dean doesn’t know what he expected. Clothes in disarray everywhere? A fucking love note? Cas himself like the miracle he is? Of course there’s nothing special to see. Cas didn’t care about material possessions, only had one set of clothes he magically cleaned, and was generally flying too far above the world to care about its physical aspect. </p><p>Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding in, and tentatively steps in the room. Almost on autopilot, he sits down on the bed. Dust rises as he does. Cas really didn’t spend much time in his room, didn’t need to. They only gave him one for convenience, because it felt weird not to. Yet another way to bring the angel down to humanity’s level. </p><p>Dean sighs, puts his head in his hands, mind so full of Cas he thinks his head should burst already. That’s when he notices, out of the corner of his eye, a small bump under a pillow. Before he has the time to think about it, his hand reaches out. His eyes go wide when he recognises the shape: rectangular, hard plastic, and small enough to fit in his palm. It’s a tape. It’s his tape, the one he gave to Cas. </p><p>His fingers slowly close on it as he brings the tape close to his heart. Unable to really process what Cas keeping it under his pillow means to him, means about them, Dean flops down on the bed like a schoolgirl in a coming of age movie. He pictures Cas, wherever he is now, all alone, and the thought of him leaving the tape, of not having anything to his name, fills Dean with a new brand of sadness.</p><p>He doesn’t know how long he stays like this, staring at Cas’ room’s ceiling. It’s so easy to lose track of time in the bunker. Eventually he wills himself to go back on autopilot, puts the tape in his shirt’s pocket, right next to his heart, and gets back to trying to find a way to get his best friend back.</p><p>When night comes, Dean digs out his tape player and presses play. It’s such an anachronistic little thing. He had to give his tape player to Cas just so he could listen to the songs. Dean knows it’s probably a little stupid, but he really loves the tangability of the object. There’s safety and nostalgia in the fragility of it, the way he can pop it open and pull out the film. He stares at the player in his hands as the first few notes of Kansas’ hit, Carry on my wayward son, plays loudly in his headphones. He turns it over, tries to picture what Cas thought of the gift, if he too lied on a bed he barely used and listened to the songs. He wonders if Cas saw through the walls Dean built, saw the raging beast in the forest. Probably. Cas always was pretty smart. Smarter than him at least, that’s for sure.</p><p>Listening to the tape at night becomes a habit, combined with the heavy drinking. It’s not comforting, far from it, but it feels like something he should do. An ugly part of him says it has something to do with the grieving process. A snort escapes him when Robert Plant starts singing Whole lotta love. Why’d he have to go and put so many love songs in this tape, the fucking idiot?</p><p>So Dean just lies in his empty bed, ears filled with the songs his parents fell in love to, and he thinks of Cas. He thinks of him so hard he sometimes feels like he’s laying down next to him, through the buzz of alcohol clouding his mind. Cas is right there besides him, trenchcoat draping over the bed, but he’s also standing in a dark room at the end of the world. And he tells Dean he loves him, tears in his eyes. And Dean says it back, feels the words form on his heavy tongue, spill into the air between them. But there’s no one on the bed next to him and Dean whispers the words to an empty room, to an empty world ruled by a heartless god.</p><p>One night, after the guitare slowly fades, Dean tries praying. It comes out automatically, words spilling out into the dark.</p><p>“Hi Cas. I don’t know if you can hear me. Actually, scratch that, I’m pretty sure you can’t. If you can, please just tell me where you are so we can come get you. I...Cas I just really need to see you again. So if you’re hearing this wherever you are, just… give me a sign. I know you’ve given me plenty already, but you gotta know by now I’m not the smartest guy. I...” </p><p>He stops then, surprised by the sudden wetness on his cheeks. He’s thankful for the cover of the dark then, can pretend he’s not crying because the Beast tore at his innards. He doesn’t know exactly who he wants to hide this all from. And really it doesn’t matter all that much, because he can only think of how much he misses Cas. Dean pushes play again, and falls asleep with an arm around the dark wolf of his heart.</p><p> </p><p>Dean tries praying again. To Cas mostly, just small words thrown in empty rooms at first, like as many messages in bottles. He doesn’t fool himself, knows they’re useless, knows he says them mostly for himself. But there’s still a stupid little part of him that can’t stop hoping. It’s the part that makes him close his eyes when he prays, and open them up wide and expectant, as if the angel would just appear in front of him, arms open and ready to forgive all his sins.</p><p>He prays to Jack too, over and over again, begging for an answer, for a sign, for anything. With time, his worship becomes vengeful. He defeated a god before, he can do it again! So just give him something. Doesn’t he deserve a soft epilogue?</p><p>As no one answers and Dean grows more desperate, he tries to put in all the forms. Maybe if he repeats enough hail Mary, crosses himself with enough vigor, maybe then his words will have enough power to reach someone, anyone. His knees are sore from falling to the floor, hands clasped and eyes shut. But no one answers. God is deaf and Dean is left a lonely worshipper.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, Sam and him go back out on the road. They don’t have a lead exactly, because finding information about the Empty is almost impossible, but they heard of another case in the newspapers. Something about killer clowns. Sam is so glad to get out of their modern day pyramid he doesn’t even pisses himself in fear. Dean’s real proud. Anyway, they hope to find some clue out there, and more than that, they’ve both been going stir crazy doing nothing but reading all day long, and they’re ready to snap. It’s a relief to get behind the wheel again. They have a day of driving, a day of blasting tunes and screaming at the world through open windows.</p><p>When they stop to eat, Sam’s gaze doesn’t leave Dean’s back. He asks him what’s wrong.</p><p>“Nothing, it's just...It’s nice to be on the road together again, you know. I got kind of...worried about you Dean, for a second.”</p><p>“You don’t have to worry about me, Sam. I always bounce back.”</p><p>“Yeah...You do know we can like, talk about it, right?”</p><p>Dean looks away, shoves pie in his mouth so he doesn’t have to answer right away. No use playing dumb, really. Not with Sam.</p><p>“I know Sammy, I know. Let’s just take care of this case first, alright?”</p><p>“Of course. I want nothing more but to go fight clowns with my big bro right this second. Actually, let's get back to the car right now, I’m just aching for those definitely not terrifying juggalos”</p><p>Dean laughs, and it’s almost genuine. Sam has a shine in his eyes, and Dean realises he’s very glad to be alive to witness it. For a moment, he’s thankful for it all, the pie on his plate, his brother’s warm smile, the sun warming his seat in the impala outside. </p><p>They quickly deal with the killer clowns. They’re actually killer vampire clowns so, right in their wheelhouse. It’s all pretty stupid, in retrospect. Dean doesn’t get why Jack couldn’t, in his all seeing perfection, just get rid of the truly stupid stuff in the universe, like killer vampire clowns. Or shitty fantasy shows with boring male leads. Stuff that no one would miss, you know? They didn’t get any information on the Empty though, and the bitter taste of defeat coates Dean’s tongue, mixed with blood and cherry pie.</p><p>They get into a sort of routine after this: researching the Empty at the bunker, hearing of a case, going to solve it, indulging in an unhealthy dose of violence, and back to the bunker. With time, Sam slowly stops giving books to Dean, stops researching as hard. He’s still supportive, of course, but Dean is scared, terrified even, that Sam realises, in a way that Dean can’t, won’t, refuses to, that Cas might be gone for real. Maybe Jack strengthened the rules. Maybe they're just genuinely powerless this time around. He doesn’t say it outloud, but he stops helping as much, fades into the background. He leaves hot plates of food to Dean when he stays up too late. He offers a shoulder to cry on. Dean doesn’t take it.</p><p>It’s not like they don’t talk about Cas, exactly.They do talk about him, have a whole brotherly heart to heart about it all one evening. And there’s beers, and maybe even a few tears. They both terribly miss him, after all. But Dean keeps a distance. He doesn’t tell Sam about the words that cling to his heart. If he does, maybe they’ll feel real, and he’ll have to deal with them in another way than drinking himself to sleep every night. Or maybe, and that’s so much scarier: maybe the words will lose meaning, like glow in the dark stars when you turn on the light. Maybe Sam will say something smart, really smart, something that makes so much sense and puts everything into perspective and will take away this small sliver of magic and hope Dean is clinging to. Because maybe that's not the way Cas meant it (of course it is, fucking idiot).And then, there’s always the stare of his father on his back.</p><p> </p><p>So they don’t talk, and Dean goes out by himself more and more. Often, he doesn’t even really know where he’s going, just wants to feel like he’s achieving something. He gets his knuckles red with demon blood, gets home (is the bunker still home when a third of his family is missing?) half dead too many nights to recall. Sam's ‘s always the one to patch him up, blood dripping all over his hands and on the couch. </p><p>As he puts stitches in what will surely form into a nasty scar on Dean’s forearm, Sam’s voice is strained and more than a little accusatory.</p><p>“You know, I really don’t think he’d want you to go and get all fucked up like that;”</p><p>Dean takes a long gulp of the whiskey he’s using as anesthetic.</p><p>“Who?” his voice comes out in a slur, pathetic almost, and he knows damn well he’s playing stupid with Sam, which is never a good plan. Sam slaps him on the shoulder in retaliation, lightly, so as not to hurt him.</p><p>“You know who, dipshit. Castiel.”</p><p>Dean groans, both at the general pain and at the name.</p><p>“Oh moan all you want, but you know I’m right. You’re acting just like Dad did with Mom, and we both know how well that went. I’m not letting you repeat some shitty patterns because you’re too much of a dick to just talk to me.”</p><p>"I'm not like dad…"</p><p>“Oh, so going off to kill demons on your own and coming off covered in blood isn’t just like dad? Dean, come on.”</p><p>“And what do you want me to do, just give up? You may have forgotten but I recall us promising we’d go and save him!”</p><p>“This isn’t saving him, it's killing yourself!.”</p><p>"Well at least I'm doing something."</p><p>“Oh yeah, great job on the Cas rescuing, I can see it’s going great.” He pops in the last stitch, violently pulls at the string. Dean hisses as his skin is shut tight.</p><p>“And don’t you bitch about the pain. I’m not your nurse, and if you don’t want hastily done stitches at 3 am, don’t go off on your own like that, you selfish prick.”</p><p>Dean swallows his bitching, takes another swing of whiskey. He’s sick of this, doesn’t want to have this conversation. Sam’s not letting him off the hook though.</p><p>“Hey Dean, for real?” Sam wipes his bloody hand on Dean’s shoulder, like they’re 10 and he’s wiping a booger on him, before disinfecting them. “You have to stop this. You have to promise me you won’t throw yourself at danger like the suicidal moron you are. If you have a lead, you tell me about it and we go out. I watch your back, you watch mine, all that shit. Hell, even if you don’t have a lead and just want to blow some steam, fucking tell me. That’s all I ask Dean, that you fucking talk to me like a godamn adult.”</p><p>“I...I’m sorry Sam. I know it shouldn’t be that hard but it’s just…” Words pile up in Dean’s throat, messy and out of order. He doesn’t know which one to reach out for, which one is less likely to hurt, to fuck things up.</p><p>“What if he is still out there, just waiting for us (“for me” almost slips out). What the fuck am I supposed to do, leave him be, just because he doesn’t answer prayers?”</p><p>“He’s not...Dean he wouldn’t want you to do this. He wouldn’t want you to throw your life away for him.”</p><p>“Why not? He did it for me!” Dean chokes on the last words, tears filling his eyes. The facade of anger crumbles, leaving way to an unbearable wave of grief. He feels gutted, grabs at the edge of the couch for balance. And suddenly Sam has his arms wrapped around him, holding him up in a tight hug. Dean brings a shaky hand to his brother’s shoulder, grabs at thick flannel, smears blood all over it. One of Sam’s hands rubs soothing circles on his back, and the other brushes at the hair on the nape of his neck. Dean’s fingers bury themselves in Sam’s shirt, and he sniffles disgustingly in his shoulder. Sam’s weight around him grounds Dean, is a reminder that they’re both alive, and Dean lets out a shaky breath, buried against his brother’s neck.</p><p>“It’s gonna be okay Dean. I’m not leaving till it’s okay.”</p><p>“I miss him so fucking much Sam.” Dean sobs pitifully, is really crying all over his little brother's shoulder now. “What if he’s really gone?”</p><p>Sam doesn’t answer, just keep rubbing at his back and letting him make a mess all over his shirt. Dean thinks he doesn’t know what to say. Because he can’t just go “It’s alright, we’ll find him!” Neither of them are delusional enough for that. It’s been months and they haven’t made a dent in the biggest case of their lives: rescuing their best friend Castiel the angel from a special fucked up dimension no one knows about. It dawns over Dean suddenly, the terrifying thought that this may be the new normal. That no matter how hard they try, Cas won’t come back. And he’s supposed to keep on living like this, knowing he fucked it all up so bad. Knowing he came so close to having… something he can’t even put into words, and he spit on it and now Cas is gone and he might never come back and oh god oh fuck. He buries himself even deeper in Sam's shoulder, wants to disappear into a ball. His arm hurts under the pressure but it’s nothing compared to his heart breaking.</p><p>“He said he loved me Sam.” He sounds like a kid, voice all small and guilty.</p><p>“I know, I know he loved you Dean.”</p><p>“I…” The words spill out of their own free will. They’re out in the stuffy air of the bunker before he can stop them, or conceptualise them or do anything much about them really. “I think I love him too.” Dean freezes, a rabbit in the headlights. His father’s gaze burns a hole in his back. It’s his whole facade that falls apart with these 6 words. And sure, maybe it always had cracks in it, maybe everyone saw through the Big Strong Straight Red-blooded American image, but god damn he clung to it for most of his life, and he’s terrified of the fallback. </p><p>But Sam keeps soothing him. “Yeah Dean, I know. It’s okay.” Like Dean just told him he ate the last fry, instead of revealing his deep seated romantic feelings for their best friend. He pulls back from the hug, wincing at the pain from his arm.</p><p>“Wait, you knew? How?”</p><p>Sam looks at him like he asked how he knows 2+2=4. It’s a mix of pity and genuine concern. He ruffles his hair, acting like the older brother he so often is. His voice is soft when he answers.</p><p>“Dean, just because you have the emotional intelligence of a baked potato doesn’t mean everyone around you does too.</p><p>“But I...I didn’t...” He gesticulates around, hands grasping at the air, trying to wrap his head around the strange terrifying reality he now lives in. “I didn’t even know until...I didn’t know when he told me.”</p><p>“Oh Dean…” Sam pulls him into his arms again. “You really are a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“I fucked it all up. I fucked it all up so bad and he didn’t even know I loved him.” Now that Dean’s walls came down, words spill out of him like out of a broken sink. “I didn’t even get to tell him because I didn’t know. I didn’t know, Sam! And now he’s gone and oh my God what if he never comes back? Sam, what the fuck am I going to do?”</p><p>“Dean, I’m pretty sure he knew you loved him. Again, not everyone is as emotionally stunted as you.”</p><p>“But what am I… Sam, I miss him so much.”</p><p>“Yeah I know… I do too.” Sam pulls back, hands on Dean’s shoulders, looking him in the eyes. </p><p>“Listen. I know I haven’t been as helpful as I could have been lately. But just because it hasn’t worked so far, doesn’t mean we can’t find him. I do believe he’s somewhere out there.” He pulls his big brother back into another hug, spreading more blood on the now ruined couch. “And when we do get to him, you can kiss him senseless and it’ll all be fine.”</p><p>Dean full on sobs in his brother’s arms, completely breaking down. He can’t believe how long he kept it all seething inside of him, how badly he needed to hear these words. The beast is raging, but it’s licking at the fire of his heart instead of eating him raw. It’s a happy dog and it only ever wanted Dean to play with it. </p><p>He ends up falling asleep on the couch, which is probably pretty bad infection wise, but he’s far too exhausted to care. Sam gets up eventually, but covers him with a blanket before leaving. Cas is still gone, but for once Dean falls asleep with peace in his heart.</p><p> </p><p>But hope is a fleeting thing, and the peace doesn’t last long. Simply saying that Cas is out there doesn’t magically bring him into Dean’s arms, or give them any new leads. And admitting he’s in love doesn’t mend his heart, or dismantle decades of weird mental constructs. The heavy stare of his dead dad doesn't leave his back, a sword of damocles hanging over his head, ready to break his skull open at any wrong move he makes. And there are so many wrong moves to make. To think of Castiel is the wrongest move, because now that all the doors are unlocked, he can’t go back and think about him the way he used to.</p><p>No, he has to picture tender hands, the way his tie folds over his stomach when he bends, crooked smiles that show just a little bit of teeth, and the stubble kissing at his jaw. His vision of Cas is all details, blurry on the edges, and it’s everywhere too. He keeps catching himself gazing into nothing and having little whispers of thoughts. Sometimes it’s Cas grabbing his hand. Sometimes it’s the woosh of wings (those are the worst, because Dean always stops breathing for a second, thinks Cas is right behind him, and of course he never is). Sometimes it’s odd words and phrases he heard him say. And every time, Dean’s heart misses a beat, and then he shakes his head and the shame buries the short-lived happiness.</p><p> </p><p>It’s strange, this shame that sticks to his bones. Because it’s not like Dean feels the same about other people. He’s (almost) always been fine with Sam being a guy, and before that he was fine with Sam kissing girls in parking lots behind John’s back. And he loved and supported Charlie. And really, rationally, he knows it’s all good and fine, being gay. (The word is too big and too scary to be applied to him still, he shivers when he thinks it out.) He knows no one is actually going to come and punch him in the gut whenever he thinks of kissing Cas. He knows his father is long gone and probably wouldn’t even care. But his brain is still all fucked up. </p><p>And the white picket fence family, with a loving wife, 2 children and a dog, the perfect little picture he always vaguely aspired to, crumbles to the ground. It’s so stupid too, because it was always an unreachable dream. Dean always knew, somewhere deep in his guts, that he'd go down fighting, and that simply isn’t compatible with a family life. He’s not even that good with kids. It’s all such a cliché fake dream, one that doesn’t even belong to him. In these fantasies, he never saw his wife as a person, not really. She’s always a cardboard cutout of what he thinks he should love. The sexy blonde with a wide smile and a great ass, who just left a pie to cool down by the window. It took him so long to realise it’s not what he wants. It took him too long. Because now what he wants is unreachable, and it’s all his fucking fault.</p><p> </p><p>Still, him and Sam try. They go out there and they really try. And it’s not enough. Because no one knows anything about the Empty. And all the books are useless. Weeks pass, then months. A year, then two. As time goes by, Dean grows more and more reckless. Sam slowly gives up again. They’re trying their hand at healthy communication, so he tells him so. Says he thinks they have to let Cas go, that it’s what he would have wanted. </p><p>Dean has had enough of healthy communication though, throws himself out of the bunker and into the impala, quick enough that Sam doesn’t see the tears, or at least quick enough to not hear his comments on them. He almost drives himself off the road, stops when he feels like his grief is about to pop out of him and pierce the windshield. He gets out of the car, screams his throat raw into the empty night. Then he lays on the hood of the impala, body limp, like a puppet with its strings cut. And he prays to Cas, prays to the stars. His words are all out of order, he doesn’t even try to cross himself, can’t hear what flows out of him. His desperate words of worship rise up slowly to the clouds. No one is there to hear them. </p><p>When he comes back, Sam at least doesn’t have to patch him up. And what is Dean supposed to do? He says alright, Sam is right. And maybe he really is. They can stop. It’s fine. He’s fine. Neither of them believe that part but this isn’t the time for objections. They can live their lives, whatever that means. </p><p> </p><p>Practically, it means pretty much the same shit as before. They’re not built for domesticity, those Winchesters. Maybe they could have been, a long time ago, before their dad put guns in their hands and destiny beat the ever loving shit out of them. But nowadays, all they know is the thrill of the hunt. It’s something useful to do, at least. </p><p>Eventually, Dean gets over it all, or looks like he does. He gets really good at looking alright.  He laughs with Sam again, and his little brother looks beyond relieved. The look in his eyes does soothe the ache in Dean’s chest a bit. Maybe it will be fine, he thinks when the sun warms his skin just right, when the cherry pie in a road dinner tastes particularly good, or when Sam snorts way too loud at his own joke. Sure, he’ll always walk around with a hole in his chest, but maybe he’ll live a whole life without it swallowing him. It will never be bliss, but he can maybe strive for stability, perhaps even something close to peace.</p><p>But at other times, Dean crumbles all over himself, crushes his heart under his teeth. It's the bitterest thing he's ever tasted and he pukes it out. He thinks he can’t take it, can’t live like this, with the enormity of his grief pushing him down. He cries out into the night, and no one ever answers. </p><p>So as time goes on, he grows more reckless. Or maybe he’s just getting older. But either way, attacks he would have dodged with his eyes closed before get to him. By the time he’s 45, he’s got more scars than John ever did, scattered all over his body like lightning. He doesn’t remember the stories behind half of them. Here’s a bullet hole. No, I don't remember who pulled the trigger. Here’s where a vampire stuck a knife and it burned whenever I breathed for a month.</p><p>It’s not that he wants to die, not exactly. But he doesn’t really want to keep on living either. It’s shitty to Sam, but at this point, he doesn’t really care which way the pendulum swings. Most of the time, he’s living on autopilot, only really inhabiting his body when it’s getting hurt. Oh, he sure feels alive when knives stick out of his ribs and dead demons fall at his feet. When the adrenaline takes over and the beating of his heart fills his ears, when blood coats his tongue, and he doesn’t have to wonder what Cas’ tongue would feel like on it instead.</p><p> </p><p>So it’s not a surprise, not really, when he feels the poison climb up through his arteries and into his heart. It's a fucked up one, he read about it once: paralyses your limbs and gets to your heart in record time, killing you in a few minutes. Bad luck that these bastards happened to have a dagger covered in it. Oh, who is he kidding? Bad luck? That’s just hypocritical, and he doesn’t have any time left for hypocrisy. Doesn’t have time for much of anything anymore, really. He knew about the poison, and if they did more research, took this case seriously, like they did 10 years ago, they would have brought antidotes, and laughed about it all as Dean recovered. They didn’t though, and his left leg gives up under him. Hell, Dean almost threw himself on the knife, with how stupid and desperate he acts in fights now.</p><p>He falls to the floor and hears Sam yell after him. He’s pretty sure they took care of the last of the ghouls, pretty sure Sam’s gonna be okay. Well, he’ll be alive at least. Fuck, dying hurts really bad. Sam’s on his knees next to him, grasping at his shirt, fumbling at the buttons, trying to see the wound, see if it’s salvageable. Dean’s arm can still move, so he throws it in his direction, grabs a handful of flannel. He tries to talk, unsure if the words will come out at all. </p><p>“It’s okay Sam. It’s poisoned, nothing  you can do really.”</p><p>“What? Dean, what are you talking about? Hey, hey there, stay with me.”</p><p>Dean’s vision gets blurry on the edges. Sam is waving a hand in front of his face, frantic and desperate. It’s like he’s falling through a cloud. His grip on Sam’s sleeve loosens. </p><p>“Dean, come on, stay with me. This is nothing, we’re gonna get you to a hospital. Come on, can you walk? It’s fine, I’ll carry you, come on.”</p><p>“Sorry Sam. I don’t think I’m getting up.”</p><p>“It’s fine, I can carry you.”</p><p>“No I mean. Sam this is it.”</p><p>“Shut up, don’t be stupid.” </p><p>Dean can barely see anything now, but he hears Sam sobbing. The anesthetic agent in the poison is doing its job, and the pain leaves him, as every over feeling does. His hand falls to the floor, limp. </p><p>“Dean!” Sam is screaming now, and yet he feels so far away, and Dean is slipping through. He wants to tell Sam that it’s alright, it really is. He’s fine with this, has been for a while now. He just hopes his brother ends up okay, doesn’t fall into despair, leads a good life. Maybe without him, he’ll be able to break free from the hunting life. Maybe Sam gets a shot to happiness. The white picket fence, the two kids and a dog, the hot spouse with a wide smile and a great ass, the pie cooling down by the window… the whole shabang. Dean thinks that’d be nice, that Sam deserves nothing less. He smiles at the thought as everything goes dark.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Heaven is really, really bright. Well, he hopes this is heaven. It feels like it. He’s laying down on grass wet with morning dew. All his pain is gone, and his fingers tentatively brush at the grass. He thinks he could stay there forever. He hasn’t felt this light in a very long time, slowly breathes in the air. It smells like pine, and he hears a bird song up above. </p><p>Eventually, curiosity pushes him to his feet, and he starts walking in this forest filled with light. It shines on everything, paints every leaf golden. Dean crooks his neck to look at the bright blue sky and an easy laugh escapes his lips. Happiness fills him to the brim, the gentle kind he never thought he’d achieve while he was alive. </p><p>After walking for a while (and the leaves on the ground crackle under the soles of his shoes, bringing him back to the happier parts of his childhood), he reaches a cabine. Smoke rises from its chimney. Before Dean gets to the door, he sees someone on the porch. And who’s that raising a jovial hand to greet him? Dean’s heart does a whole summersault between his ribs. Bobby motherfucking Singer, a beer in hand and a wide grin eating away at his beard. </p><p>Dean starts running automatically, only realising he’s doing it on the third step. He all but jumps on the old man, covering him in a frantic hug. Bobby hugs him back, laughter rising up to the sky. Dean pulls back, hands on Bobby’s shoulders, stares at him with stars in his eyes. He looks so young and happy and alive!</p><p>“Took you long enough idjit.”</p><p>“Long enough? I’m 46 you dipshit!”</p><p>“That’s an eternity in hunter years though.”</p><p>“Oh yeah, forgot we’re like dogs.”</p><p>Bobby chortles, and Dean smiles so wide it hurts his cheeks. </p><p>“So this really is heaven? How are you here?”</p><p>“It's the one thing Jack did before fucking off: break down the walls in heaven. I was stuck and suddenly I wasn’t, easy as that. We’re all here Dean. There’s John and Mary right down the road. I think you can even see their house from here.”</p><p>“Everyone’s here?” Here’s hope crawling back into Dean’s heart, that treacherous bastard.</p><p>“Yeah. Ruffus is cooking inside. You can come in anytime you want, by the way. We’d love to have you for dinner. And Annie’s here too. And Charlie, and Kevin and Castiel.”</p><p>Dean could die right there again. He blinks at Bobby. He tries and absolutely fails to keep his voice even.</p><p>“Castiel?”</p><p>Bobby smiles knowingly, the bastard. Dean bets he kept Cas’ name for last on purpose. His voice is filled to the brim with fatherly love when he answers.</p><p>“Yup. Don’t see him around that much, but he’s got a little house in the forest, that way.”</p><p>“He’s really here?” Dean blinks again, tries really hard not to cry.</p><p>Bobby hums approvingly. “I think he’s waiting for you, kiddo.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean wipes at his eyes, sniffles a little. “Yeah, I think he’s been doing that for a long time now. Hey Bobby?”</p><p>“Yes Dean?”</p><p>“I’m a real fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Been telling you for ages, idjit. Now go out there, poor guy spent enough time waiting!”</p><p>Dean chuckles, feet already carrying him back towards the forest.</p><p>“Thanks, Bobby. Really, thank you for everything. I’ll see you around. We’ll uh…we’ll come over for dinner.”</p><p>“Take your time kiddo.” Bobby says as he waves him goodbye. “We have all of it in the world.”</p><p> </p><p>And Dean’s off, almost floating off the ground with glee. As he walks, trees grow thicker around him. He thinks back to the dark forest of his heart, and the beast raging right outside his door. This one looks the same, but it’s glistening with light. The sun shines through the leaves above him, highlighting a golden path. His fingers graze the bark of the tall pines in a thoughtless caress. He has no idea what he’s going to say to Cas, doesn’t know if he even deserves forgiveness for how he hurt him. But he wants to kiss him senseless, and this is heaven and they have all the time in the world.</p><p>He thinks he walks for a long time, but it’s also like only a few seconds have passed when he reaches a clearing in the woods. A clearing with a very small wooden house. There’s a buzzing in the air, matching the one in his heart. Dean runs to the front door, heart beating so fast he’s afraid it’s going to rip through his ribcage and into Cas’ expectant hands. He stops, catches his breath. His palms are sweaty, and panic seeps out of his pores. God, what is he going to say to him? He brings up a shaking hand to the door, knocks twice, to the frantic rhythm of his heart. He hears rummaging inside, and footsteps, and suddenly Cas is standing in front of him, wiping his hand on a dishcloth, perfect as ever. Dean drinks the sight in, breathless. He’s wearing a white button down, with two buttons popped open, revealing his collarbone, and dark slacks, and Dean has never seen a more gorgeous sight. Cas’ mouth hangs open, eyes wide, pupils drifting all over Dean’s face.</p><p>“Dean…”</p><p>Dean can’t wait anymore, can’t talk either. He buries himself in Cas’ shoulder, arms wrapping around him in the tightest hug he’s ever given. Cas laughs, the sweetest melody that ever grazed Dean’s ears. He drops the dishcloth at their feet, hugs Dean back. If Dean could bury himself inside the angel, crawl between his ribs and make a home right by his heart, he would. He can’t get enough Cas’ scent, Cas’ trembling fingers on his back and in his hair, Cas’ breathing so close to his ear. </p><p>“I’m so sorry Cas.” he half whispers, half cries out in the angel’s neck. “You’re everything, you’re everything to me Cas. I love you too. Of course I love you. How could I not? I’m so sorry it took me so long to see it. I’m a fucking moron. You can have me. You always had me, it just took me a fucking decade to realise it.” His body wants to get on its knees, beg for forgiveness and worship the man in front of him, but Cas holds him up, holds him together, arms crushing him in a tight embrace. </p><p>Dean pulls back, brings a hand to Cas’ cheek, who leans into the touch, eyes half closed, with a smile that could light up a black hole. Dean is so in love with this man. It’s so ridiculous it took him this long to see it, when it was all right in front of him. Cas pulls him into another hug, head buried in the crook of his neck. Dean feels his lips brush against his skin when he talks. “Thank you Dean.” He laughs, sending shivers through Dean’s spine. “I love you too, obviously. Even if you are an idiot.” Dean kisses his forehead, brings him even closer, hands grasping his shirt with desperation. </p><p>He pulls back and cradles Cas’ jaw in his palms. He never wants to look at anything but the angel face, gazing up lovingly at him. And then he does what he’s been wanting to do for what feels like forever. He rubs his thumbs on Cas’ cheeks, marveling at the softness of his stubble, and kisses him. It’s nothing special, really. They're both smiling too hard for it to even really be a kiss. But then he kisses him again, and again, and all over his jaw and he nibbles at his neck, and Cas’ laugh fills his ears and Dean’s heart crawls up through his throat, curls up on his tongue and ends up between the angel's teeth. It’s where it belongs. Dean knows Cas will take good care of it.</p><p>Cas pulls on Dean’s shirt as he bites his bottom lip, pulling him forward. “Get in. You’re letting the cold in.” Dean laughs against his mouth, happiness bubbling out of his chest. “It’s not even cold out!”</p><p>“Don’t care. Get in anyway.”</p><p>Cas shuts the door behind them and pushes him flush against it, hands curling around his neck. Dean doesn’t have a checklist for what heaven needs, but all his boxes are ticked nonetheless as Cas takes him apart.</p><p> </p><p>Later, when he’s laying shirtless on Cas’ bed (and isn’t that incredible, the angel using his bed for one of its intended purposes), Dean stares at Cas as he pokes methodically at him. He feels a bit like a bug under a microscope, as Cas runs his fingers all over him, gaze intense. Dean brings his hand to Cas’ hair, ruffles it, asks him what he’s doing. He still can’t believe he gets to have this, Cas in his arms all happy and perfect. Cas probes at one of his newer scars, on his abdomen. </p><p>“You have a lot more scars than when I left you.” he says.</p><p>“Yeah, well what can I say? I’m a real mess without you Cas.” He means it as a joke, but it comes out raw, rings true to both of them. Cas snaps his eyes up to his, gaze serious like he so often is. There’s a silent promise in these eyes, and Dean intertwines his fingers with Cas’, squeezes his palm, hopes this is enough to reciprocate it. “You suffered more than you had to, and I caused so much of that suffering. I want to dedicate my whole self to making you smile.” is what he wants to say. He brings Cas’ hands up, tenderly kisses his knuckles. It doesn’t have the Hail Mary or the crossing, but this is a prayer in its own rights. He looks into Cas’ shining eyes and sees the God he spent so long chasing.</p><p>“Can you tell me about them?” Cas asks, voice small and shy. So Dean does, or the ones he remembers. He relives every stabbing and gunshot, as Cas runs his fingers over the scars, applying a baulm over his whole being. He confesses, is absolved, forgiven and reborn all at once under his lover’s touch. He tells him about more than the pain though, tells him about all the stupid crazy adventures, tells him about Sam, tells him how much he missed him. He admits in a whisper the countless nights spent praying to an empty sky. Cas looks up at him with an adoring gaze, and Dean isn’t sure which one of them prayed harder. </p><p> </p><p>Later again, Cas treats him to a tour of the house, hand clasped firmly in his. He rushes through the actual cabin, barely stopping long enough for Dean to take in the sight. It’s clear there’s something he’s really excited about, and Dean can’t stop smiling at seeing the angel like this, freer than he’s ever seen him. Cas gets out into the clearing and tells Dean to close his eyes. He lets go of his hand as he does, and Dean obliges, biting his lip around a bubbling laugh. He hears ruffling, and still the same buzzing he heard when he first came to the house.</p><p>“Ok. You can open them.”</p><p>Cas is wearing a full beekeeper suit, smiling shyly through the mesh.</p><p>“Bees? You have bees?”</p><p>“Yes, do you want to meet them?”</p><p>“Cas, I have never wanted anything more than I want to meet your bees right this moment.”</p><p>“Great!” Cas almost jumps with glee, like a kid at christmas, and grabs his hands. “Because I have another suit for you.”</p><p>After spending way too much time getting into the beekeeper suit and almost falling on his ass twice, Dean lets Cas bring him over the beehives. They fly around him, landing all over the angel. As they do, he points and names them out to Dean.<br/>
“You can tell them apart?”</p><p>“Of course. Each one of them is bursting with so much life. Aren’t they beautiful?”</p><p>Dean looks at how Cas looks at his bees, face brimming with happiness, shining so bright Dean forgets darkness even exists, and he has to agree. They really are beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>Later again, Dean grabs Cas by the waist, and they slow-dance in the kitchen, to no music but the sound of their hearts. They’re in the small kitchen with yellow walls, but they’re also in a barn at night, and at a wasteland at the end of the world. They’re in a buried room that holds the memory of long dead men, and they’re bursting out of their skin but still not touching. They’re in a dirty motel room with a flickering TV on. They’re at a crossroads where demons go. They’re in a grey forest filled with fear and pain. They’re in a place Dean doesn’t recognize, so bright it burns his retinas. They’re in his childhood room, the one where his mother died. They’re everywhere at once, and they never let go of each other. This is everything heaven needs to be, Dean thinks: Cas’ hands in his, Cas not letting go of his hand.</p><p> </p>
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 EVERYONE LOOK AT THIS GOERGOUS PIECE OF FANART MY VERY GOOD FRIEND TAO MADE FOR THIS FIC<br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! All kudos, comments and bookmarks mean a lot to me :D<br/>I'm Kimodraw on twitter / tumblr if you want to come check out my art (which is very supernatural based these days), or my shitpost, which is sometimes supernatural based.<br/>Have a good day/evening/night !</p></blockquote></div></div>
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